


Go Home and Start Again

by letmegeekatyou



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Agender Character, Angst, BAMF Castiel, Chicago (City), Dean and Kids, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letmegeekatyou/pseuds/letmegeekatyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of trying to get Sam to expel Gadreel, Dean, Cas, and Crowley took him to the bunker to exorcise the renegade angel, but things went very wrong. Afterward, each believing the other to be dead, Cas and Dean take very different paths forward.</p><p>Feedback is welcome, as this is a work in progress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content note: this chapter begins right after the misfiring of a spell that results in major character death.

**Prologue: Lebanon**

Angels are warriors of God. Compared to humans, their power is limitless and terrible, and most know only obedience. They know how to destroy, again and again, whatever displeases those who control them. Castiel is controlled by rage.

When they had attempted to exorcise Gadreel from Sam's body, the spell had misfired, turning Gadreel's grace into a weapon that sent a shockwave through the bunker, burning Sam's body and throwing them all, Dean and Crowley and Castiel, against stone walls that cracked under the impact. Castiel heard Dean's body break against the stones, but he only had time to scream his name before he felt a hand on his shoulder and someone forced him to take flight out of the collapsing bunker and into the dusty air above it. It was afternoon, but the sky overhead was dark with angels, and whoever had pulled him out vanished before he could see a face.

While Castiel and the others has been fighting to save Sam, Malachi had arrived with his legions, as had the other warlord angels who now fought for possession of Castiel, the one thing they thought could reopen Heaven. They arrived with swords and spells and ancient magic to compensate for the loss of their wings, because they all knew that the victor would become leader of the angels in exile and ruler of Heaven on their return. Where they disagreed was on the question of whether it would be necessary to take him alive.

Castiel crouched, disoriented, below them in the darkness among the rubble, which was dense and impenetrable and covered Dean like a cairn, and he felt something inside him break. Or perhaps it was breaking open, releasing something that had been buried deep in his programming and controlled, until that moment, by impossibly strong, all but impenetrable bonds. That, he realized, was how he and the other seraphim had been made. They had been created like archangels, but God had bound their powers, put them under tight restrictions. They were archangels in fetters, more easily led than their older siblings but with the same destructive potential.

Castiel could feel the power surge through him, transforming him into a righteous will and a burning fire. His vessel stretched and frayed at the seams, but that was mere background noise to the grief and anger that fueled him and had broken the bonds that held his powers in check. Perhaps with another angel, one with less experience of humanity, one who had not loved anyone, it wouldn't have happened like this. Maybe it wouldn't even have been possible for anyone but Castiel, because what other angel had gnawed at his ties to Heaven so persistently? Only Anna, and she had fallen before grief could break her. He raised his eyes to the angels warring above him, and he made a decision.

The first battle was brief but less bloody than you might imagine. Not one angel touched Castiel, but they fell in a ring around him, their vessels crumbling to dust before reaching the ground. Some, seeing how the tide had turned against them, fled, changing their vessels for new ones over and over, hiding their movements in lost hikers, drowned swimmers whose bodies were never found, explorers in cold, deadly places from which no one expected them to return.

Malachi, with his streak of anarchic ambition, stood when all the others had fallen or fled, thinking it was because he had withstood Castiel, because he was strong enough to win. He was wrong.

“What will you do now, Castiel? You've killed enough of us to satisfy whatever feelings you were sublimating, I trust?” His smirk faltered as Castiel walked toward him, his eyes glowing blue and his wings shining like black glass. “Look around you, brother. Look at the price you pay for becoming too attached to your pets.”

Castiel glanced over the rubble before looking at Malachi with a sneer. “Do you know the difference between archangels and the rest of the host?” he asked quietly.

“They were more powerful and more arrogant. And they are all but gone now.”

“That is accurate. But the important difference, Malachi, is that archangels remember. I remember every single life, every single man, woman, child, monster, and angel our kind have ever destroyed. They were locked away from me before, but now they are all here, before my eyes. I remember the color of their blood on the ground. I remember their ruined bodies. I remember the first child we killed in Egypt, and I remember the sound of Dean Winchester's last breath leaving his body. I remember them all, and I am angry. And I have made a decision, Malachi.”

“I am going to destroy us all.”


	2. Maine

Lailah remembered the rasping of Castiel's wings against her own as they had fought back to back against the legions of Hell. She remembered how they had leaned on one another as they left the field of battle and how they had listened to each other's lists of the dead. She remembered how they had comforted each other, and she was sorry that she may have to kill him. When the tide had turned in Lebanon, she had been among the first to recognize the danger and flee. But she had heard, as they all had, as Castiel knew they would, what he had said to Malachi just before he had burned him. And she knew, perhaps better than anyone, what it would take to stop Castiel after grief had finally broken his seemingly impermeable self-control.

She stood on a rocky outcrop on the coast of Maine, high above the dark and rolling ocean. Her vessel was strong for a human, and the immensity of the ocean made her glad of that strength, small as it was. She disliked the fragility of possession and the ephemerality of the human body, so she had sought out a soldier, a tall Israeli woman with short black hair and heavily muscled limbs, whose devoutness made her a willing host to an angel. She could feel the small soul of the woman inside her, an uncomfortable sensation at the periphery of her consciousness like a small feather bent in battle, and it reminded her of how loosely she was tethered to this world, how far away and inaccessible her own was.

A more disturbing presence sat closer to the surface, just under the devil's trap tattoo on the inside of her wrist, where a fragment of a demon vibrated with rage. Like many in the garrison, she had rejected the idea when it was first proposed, but the events of Lebanon had convinced her that it was necessary. The sensation was nauseating, and her skin burned, but the little prisoner allowed her to take advantage of Hell's power to teleport, an ability that had become essential for survival. 

Lailah's remaining lieutenants, Iaolus and Ananais, had submitted to the procedure as well. Not her highest ranking soldiers, but the best of those that were left, they had chosen a wiry, athletic man from mountains of Switzerland and a small, curly-haired Greek girl as vessels. This last choice frustrated Lailah, since the body seemed particularly fragile and not suited to survival, but Ananais was determined.

“This is a body that will be overlooked and underestimated, Lailah. It will let me enter places unseen and move about without suspicion, which you cannot do.” Lailah did not approve of the younger angel's arrogance, but she was right about her vessel, and she had more experience of humanity than Lailah, having visited earth occasionally to look after saints and miracle workers. She was insufferable but invaluable. Iaolus bristled at her words, too, but he knew it was Lailah's place to discipline her, not his.

“We've seen what Castiel can do,” he interjected. “He's going to decimate us if we don't act soon. The Fall did enough damage without the survivors getting picked off one at a time by a rogue with a broken brain.” He ruffled his reddish hair anxiously. It was longer than he would have liked, but he never altered his vessels if he could help it, and he felt guilty enough already about the tattoo on his hip. Iaolus had spent even more time on earth than Ananais, long enough to have picked up habits and speech patterns that made him seem somewhat out of place in the garrison, but he was a good soldier. Which was, of course, why he'd had the assignments he'd had. Lailah had become accustomed to him, although they rarely had much close contact, and she didn't mind his oddities. She folded her arms and turned to gaze out over the water.

“Action is needed,” she said after a moment of thought, “but as you say, we have seen what Castiel can do. His power is unusual and barely under his control, and we must not underestimate the destruction of which this makes him capable. He is...something new.”

“All the more reason to strike quickly, before he gains full control of himself. We cannot be held back by sentiment,” Ananais urged. She was glaring at Lailah's back, and her commander did not need to see her face to hear the accusation in her words. It was true, she was unjustifiably reluctant to take action against her former friend. They had shared much, and if there was anything left in him that was redeemable, she wished to find it. To do so, though, would obviously require occupying Ananais in other tasks, channeling her bloodlust into usefulness. Lailah turned to face her lieutenants.

“Whatever we do, we cannot act alone. Ananais, members of the garrison are still unaccounted for. You will seek them out, or try to confirm their deaths, and gather the survivors here. Then you must determine which garrisons have been left leaderless; those soldiers will be seeking help and direction, and you will reform them into companies to fight alongside our own soldiers. We must avoid broadcasting our movements, so speak to everyone in person insofar as it is possible.” Ananais straightened up as tall as her vessel would allow.

“Lailah, I have never been a messenger--”

“I have given you an order, Ananais. Are you refusing to obey?” 

The smaller angel tossed her hair, and Lailah was struck by the expressiveness of human bodies and how it differed from angels' language of eyes and wings.

“Of course not, Lailah. I would never refuse to obey,” she answered with her lips but not with her eyes. With the barest nod of leavetaking, she was gone in a flicker of wings that left an unpleasant odor of sulfur lingering in the air.

“You've got a good assignment for me, I hope.” Iaolus cocked an eyebrow at Lailah.

“Perhaps. That depends on your understanding of 'good.' I need you to observe Castiel, if you can do so safely, so that we can begin to understand what he can and will do. Do not act against him unless you must defend yourself.” Iaolus nodded. He recognized this sign of his commander's trust for what it was, and he was flattered by it, as she had hoped he would be. He nodded firmly, gazing into her eyes but not asking the question she knew was at the front of his mind, and quietly vanished.

The question Iaolus had not asked was the one Lailah had not stopped asking since the battle at the bunker, and now, as she sat staring out over the opaque ocean and rubbing gently at her burning wrist, she set about the task of answering it.

Was it possible to save Castiel?


	3. Fizzles' Folly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: this chapter involves a character having suicidal thoughts.

Dean Winchester was dead. He had died that day in the bunker, had died alongside Cas and what was left of Sam. God only knew what had happened to Crowley. So when Garth pulled him out of the rubble, the man who had been Dean Winchester did not know who he was, and he did not know what to do or say or think. He did not know how he had survived in the ruined dungeon while the angels destroyed themselves over his head. He only knew that he was done with everything that had come before.

He thought about ending it all. He thought about that more than he thought about anything else, especially in those first weeks, while he was lying in a hospital bed, then standing next to Sam's funeral pyre (they never found Cas's body, Jimmy's body, but there was so much ash on the ground it was impossible to tell one wrecked vessel from another. Sam himself was barely recognizable). If Garth hadn't been there beside him, ready to pull him back out, he might have walked right into the fire then and there. He hadn't cried yet, had thought maybe he was past that, like losing too many people had just dried the tears out of him, but he was wrong.

It was the next morning, sifting through the ashes to make sure the fire had done its work, that he came across the amulet. It must have been in Sam's pocket, because Dean had never seen him wear it, had always assumed that it was long gone. The cord was burned off and the amulet itself had turned black, but it had managed, through its magic, he supposed, to survive the flames. He didn't even notice that he was crying until Garth spoke up.

“Hey, Dean. You okay? You find something?” He came over to crouch beside him with worry in his eyes. “Was that Sam's? If the fire didn't destroy it, we'll have to find another--”

“It was mine. He was just...” Dean choked on the words, never taking his eyes off the amulet. “He was just carrying it for me.”

“Okay, amigo.” Garth couldn't tell whether Dean was lying or not, but he had experience with ghosts. If Sam came back vengeful, he knew what to do. He just had to hope that Dean was telling the truth, because if Sam's ghost did turn up, Garth wasn't sure either Winchester would _let_ him lay him to rest.

“I'll give you a minute. I'm just gonna wait in the car.”

Dean nodded, only half listening. The still-hot coals were starting to burn through the knees of his jeans as he knelt there, but between the painkillers and the grief, he barely felt it. All that time, Sam had kept the damn thing. All that time, and he never gave it back. Maybe he never trusted Dean enough, thought he'd throw it away again. He probably would have been right, too, a lot of the time. It was supposed to help them find God, but in all that time, after all the demons and monsters and goddamn angels, God was the one supernatural thing that never actually showed up, so what was the point of it? Hell, what was the point of Dean, if he couldn't do the one thing he was supposed to do and keep Sammy safe?

He had spoken to Death more times than anybody should, but now he felt like Death was following him, just waiting, eternally patient. He thought about it when he woke up, morning after morning, to find the world the same as it had been when he had fallen asleep. But he was so tired, as though all the violence and rage and grief had simply poured out of him, and he was left with no strength to take action, even against himself. He couldn't even bring himself to pray, knowing the one person he could have prayed to was gone. And if he sometimes mumbled desperate, angry prayers when he was drunk, he seldom remembered, anyway.

He had dreams about Cas sometimes, dreams that had started at the hospital under the influence of some powerful drugs and never really went away. Sometimes they'd be in the bunker, sometimes at Bobby's, sometimes in one of a thousand anonymous motel rooms. But it was always just the two of them, and Cas would grip Dean's shoulder in the same place he had the first time they met and say, _let me in_. Sometimes he was angry, sometimes pleading, and other times his voice came with a heat that Dean felt in his stomach and his groin, and he would almost say yes. But in the dream he was mute with some indefinable fear, and he would wake up on Garth's couch, sweating and gasping for air.

He had stayed in Kansas for a while, mechanically sorting through the rubble of the bunker for dangerous or important things that could be salvaged. Garth kept an eye on him, helped out where he could, but Dean was running on auto pilot and barely noticed. It was the job, the cleanup that had to be done after a disaster. It kept him going at first, and Garth was glad to see that, but after a few weeks, as they turned up less and less in their searches, it became clear that Dean had no idea what was supposed to come next, and he didn't much care. Finally, Garth had convinced him to come up to Chicago with him, where _Fizzles' Folly_ was in winter storage and Garth had a small, unimpressive apartment over an auto repair shop. 

The couch was uncomfortable, but he slept badly anyway, and he had no desire or willpower to go anywhere else. He was afraid at first that it would be awkward, since Garth had always been more touchy-feely and less interested in personal space than Dean generally liked, but the young hunter seemed to have a sixth sense about when Dean needed space and managed to be out on jobs pretty regularly. Dean also suspected he was seeing someone, based on a few overheard phone calls and some other...overheard things, but that was a situation he had zero desire to investigate.

The weeks passed, indistinguishable from one another. Dean felt like he was hibernating, hiding out from the cold in the library during the day and various dim bars at night, sleeping long stretches that left him feeling more and more tired, waiting for something, some change that would mean the next part of his life could start. It was an inevitability he didn't dwell on; his life so far had been one terrible loss after another, and the only real question was what would be taken from him next.

Eventually, the uniform grey of Chicago winter eased a little, and _Fizzles' Folly_  was ready to be taken out of storage. Garth sublet the apartment--slip rental wasn't exactly cheap, even though he did hint that he had a friend who hooked him up with a discount--and the two of them moved onto the boat. Garth was happy to be back on the water, and it showed, although for Dean life continued much as it had before.

 

Garth did try, occasionally, to push Dean forward a little. Once, he woke Dean by dropping a newspaper on his chest.

“Come on, buddy, we caught a case. Definitely a vengeful spirit, maybe two, up in Kenosha.” Dean frowned at the paper and shrugged it onto the floor.

“Not interested, Garth,” he mumbled, pulling a pink and yellow crocheted afghan closer around his hunched shoulders.

“Aw, now don't be like that! I could really use your help on this one. We can stop for burgers on the way...” Garth's smile should have been contagious, but Dean's immunity to cheer was rock solid. He rolled over into the musty back of the couch and closed his eyes, silently willing Garth to give up.

“How about this? You can drive, and we can listen to classic rock! You like Kansas, right?”

“Goddammit, Garth!” Dean threw himself off the couch, disentangling himself angrily from the afghan and tossing it to the floor. “I said I'm not interested in hunting, so just back off, okay? Deal with the goddamn vengeful spirits yourself.” He grabbed his keys and made for the door, giving the frame a hard right hook on his way past that left a smear of blood behind.

Garth stood looking after him for a moment, then scooped the afghan off the floor and folded it carefully before returning it to the couch.

When he got back the next night, he found Dean leaning over the stove cooking burgers. There were way too many on the plate next to him for the two of them to eat—he could tell Dean was trying to make some sort of amends, but Garth had learned about Dean's ways of saying what he didn't want to actually say, knew to just accept the offering for what it was and not to talk about what it meant. Really, he was just glad Dean was back.

“Wow, they smell good! I could use one, too. Kenosha was a bust. Just the old lady's son trying to convince the other kids she'd lost her mind, so she'd get put in a home and he'd get the house.” Garth shook his head. “What is the world coming to, I ask you?”

Dean was quiet, so Garth set his duffel bag by the door and went to work slicing a tomato. Situation normal on _Fizzles' Folly_ , Dean chewing away at some emotional mess inside him and Garth waiting quietly to see if there was anything he could do. Usually, it ended with Dean going out alone, then Dean coming back hours later, smelling like cigarettes and whiskey, or a call from a bartender who'd found Garth's number in Dean's recent calls (Garth called him every so often for unimportant things, just to make sure his number stayed near the top).

After a few minutes, Dean cleared his throat and began talking, not looking at Garth, who kept his attention on the task at hand but gave the tomato a look of surprise.

“Sam and me, we once had a case in Maryland where an old dude was freaking out because something kept doing chores around his house. I don't even remember why we were in that town. Just passing through, I think, but Sam got to talking with the guy's buddy, who worked at the gas station and told us about how the nicest ghost in the country lived right down the street.

“Anyway, the thing would wash dishes, change lightbulbs, even left him sandwiches. We thought it might be a brownie or something, one of those helpful-til-they-kill-you type things, but it turned out to be his daughter-in-law coming by to help him out. The old guy's hearing aid was on the fritz, and he never heard her coming or going or talking to him, so she just thought he hated her, and he thought the place was haunted.” Dean let out a sound that might have been a chuckle, but it was hard to hear under the sound of sizzling meat.

“When we left, the daughter-in-law was driving him to the doctor to get the hearing aid checked, and they were both happy as clams. We didn't have to hunt a goddamn thing, but those two people were happy again after god knows how long, just 'cause Sammy couldn't say no when some old timer wanted to chat.”

The burgers were done, but Dean was still standing by the stove, leaning into the counter so hard that Garth could see the tension in the muscles of his arms.

“I've had loads of practice at losing Sam. Done it over and over again. And I still don't know how to do it. I forget how to do the simplest crap, because I don't fit the world right with him not here. I'm going to be stupid about a lot of things for a while.”

Dean seemed to be done talking, but he didn't seem to know how to end the one-sided conversation. So Garth handed him the plate of tomatoes and patted his shoulder good-naturedly.

“Well, you aren't stupid about making burgers. Let's eat, amigo.”

Garth knew that things wouldn't magically turn around just because Dean had kind of opened up to him, and he was right, but things between them were a little easier, and Dean was just a little more present than before. He fiddled with broken things around the boat, half fixing them before he grew tired and left them for Garth to finish. He even tried running, although he'd never admit to himself why, and he enjoyed the sound of his heart pounding in his ears and the pain of the cold winter air in his lungs. He wouldn't hunt, though, and Garth didn't push it, knowing Dean was barely keeping his head above water and wasn't thinking yet about the future, about whether that was a life he could go back to.

He'd occasionally talk about Sam, or let Garth talk about him, but almost never about how he missed him. Closest he came would be to say that “Sam would know” the answer to a question or “wish we had Sam here” to help with some heavy lifting. Cas he never mentioned at all, and Garth worried about that, but there was something frightening about Dean's grief that kept him from worrying out loud, something violent and intimate just below the surface that Garth was afraid to disturb.

Sensing Dean's restlessness as the weather warmed up, he started sending him out to his neighbors on handyman jobs, windows needing to be replaced or engines that wheezed instead of roaring. He was good at that stuff, the little things that occupied his hands and gave him something outside himself to focus on.

So Dean began to move faster and faster, stifling a vague fear of standing still and a less vague sense that a little money would help him get more of what he needed to drown the memories. It was a change, although Garth wasn't sure yet whether it was a change for the better.


	4. Castiel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: this chapter involves self-harm, non-graphic violence, and brief suicidal thoughts.

Jacob was minor soldier, known more for his flashy, iridescent wings than his skill as a fighter. Castiel killed him easily behind a bar in Oklahoma. Aria, a seraph he knew well, was less easy to kill, and as her light flickered out, he felt an ache in his chest. He was used to aches, though. His vessel strained against what he had become, an archangel who was never meant to be in a vessel that was never meant to hold one. What would his father think of him now? Would he be surprised, disapproving? Would he even care enough to intervene? Castiel pushed the thought away; God had shown how little interest he had in this world, in his children. It was pointless to wonder about him now.

What concerned him now were the visions. The other archangels must have become accustomed to their shared memories more gradually, collecting them over time rather than all at once, but for Castiel it was worse than angel radio, a constant barrage of images and sounds and even smells, impossible to turn off and always full of death. He was often confronted by Sam and Anna, Samandriel and Balthazar, all the others he had killed or failed to save, reliving the moments they shared over and over, like echoes. Sam especially. Sam was almost always wandering at the edges of his consciousness, his image frayed and blurred, his eyes dark and full of sadness and pain.

It was Dean who stood out most clearly, though, standing in front of him, looking him in the eyes. Dean when they had fought in the alley, his face bloody. Dean shouting at him across a circle of holy fire. Dean's desperate voice, praying to him to come back. Dean's body breaking as the backfiring exorcism threw him against the wall of the bunker. The color of Dean's eyes. The touch of his hand...

Ambriel fought hard. She was defending Kerubiel, who was too injured to fight at all. She should have fled, Castiel told himself. What was the point of these sentimental loyalties, with no more Heaven, no more order? He told himself they were a weakness. He told himself they did not matter at all. Love was for humans, not angels.

But there had always been something wrong with Castiel, isn't that what Naomi had said? A crack in his chassis. A fault. Perhaps that was it—he had been made capable of that great human weakness, that love that was more than friendship or loyalty or affection. He had to wonder, had love stayed his sword in Egypt or the countless other slaughters of which he'd been a part? How many humans had he tried and failed to save? If they existed at all, he couldn't remember. Memories of death stalked him day and night, but his own had been stolen, and he did not know how many loves he had lost, how many he ought to be mourning.

What he did know was a deep emptiness in the center of his heart. Once, it had been a yearning he had felt toward Dean, wherever they were, however far apart they were. He hadn't known how to deal with it then, how to control it or use it or even feel it, but it had lived inside him all that time, drawing him closer and closer to the righteous man as if he was fresh water in a vast desert. And now, with Dean gone, it was consuming him from the inside.

Helios had been named for his golden wings that had turned to ash in the Fall. Castiel killed him in a meadow in France, and flowers grew where he fell, nourished by the remains of his grace.

He thought often about killing himself, but the memories pushed at him, prodded him, reminded him of the curse his kind had been to humanity. How could he leave the world at the mercy of such creatures, monsters like himself? So he persisted, haphazardly and with no real plan except genocide and a small, firey desire to meet Gadreel and Metatron, face to face, one more time.

Mariah had looked after sailors, had cleared the night sky so they could see the stars. Castiel found her sitting exposed in the Australian desert, mourning the loss of home and willing to die. Phineas, who had carved out the bed of the Amazon, sought Castiel out, wanted to go down fighting instead of being hunted.

He couldn't turn the memories off, so he found a way to drown them out. The first time, it was accidental; he was standing in a dark corner of a parking lot, waiting for an angel to come out of a diner. (Tobias. Well-liked in the garrison but brutal in battle.) With no cars passing on the nearby highway, nothing to distract him, he was confronted by a vision of Dean on his knees, bleeding, begging, saying _I need you_ , making his heart race. It was this Dean who had broken Naomi's hold over him, freeing him from her machinations and giving him a reason to fight. Castiel clutched at his own wings, desperately trying to keep himself from reaching out and touching the phantom's cheek, trying to heal him as he had once before.

The jolt of pain as his fists tightened and pulled at his feathers brought him back to reality like a cold wind. As the vision vanished, leaving only the gravel of the parking lot in front of him, he felt a wave of sorrow but another of relief. Tobias came out shortly after, and Castiel went to work.

Pain became Castiel's friend. It sharpened his eyes, banished the worst of the visions, kept him from sinking under his grief. And if his wings became more ragged as his desperate fists bent and broke the feathers or wrenched them loose, it was a small price to pay for a respite from those faces, desperate, sad, angry faces of people he had loved and failed so profoundly. The pain was what he deserved. It reminded him that after he had wiped the other angels from the earth, it would finally be his turn, that he would finally, finally be allowed to drown in his own fiery pain.

Mark was older than any but the archangels. Castiel sat beside him on a park bench, sharing his companionship as he often had in Heaven. It was almost peaceful, he thought, except that he could feel Sam just behind him like a shadow, silent and waiting. Finally, Mark turned to him with a sigh. “Go on, son. Do what you came for.”

After, when he was walking away through the park, Sam's voice followed him, insinuating itself among the trees and tightening itself around his chest. _How in the hell are we supposed to trust you now?_ Once, he had tried to answer that question, but now he buried his hands in his wings and pulled as hard as he could. Three shimmering black feathers fell to the ground, accompanied by a stinging pain and a merciful silence.


	5. Ande

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets dragged out of a bar, gets a hangover, and gets to meet Garth's sweetheart.

Dean knew the drinking was a bad idea, but alcohol was warm and familiar, and it wrapped him up in a soft armor that protected him from the things he didn't want to name or face. Besides, going to bars gave him an excuse to be away from the boat, away from Garth and his kindness and the devil's traps and Kevin's notes still taped to the walls that reminded Dean constantly of just how badly the last few years had gone. In bars, he could almost be himself again, a younger version of himself, and he could imagine the Impala outside and his stupid little brother doing research back at some motel room, and he could pretend that his only worry was whether he could get the waitress's phone number. Some nights, he could—hers or someone else's—and he'd spend a few anonymous hours losing himself in laughter and sex and the comforting strangeness of someone else's bedroom, someone else's life.

Other nights, though, there was no one, and he'd spend hours hunting the bottom of a bottomless glass. By the time he was drunk enough to think over his losses, drunk enough to get angry, sometimes even drunk enough to pray, he was generally past the point where he'd remember anything the next day, and that was all fine by him. Because after the anger and the prayers came the guilt and grief, and if Dean Winchester ever actually cried into his drink, he did not want to remember it.

Thus it was that he was completely wasted and completely oblivious when he met Ande, Garth's mysterious paramour, the first time, which he does not remember at all. And he was profoundly hungover the next morning, when he met Ande the second time, but that was the time he would actually remember.

It had been a bad night; with no job to take his mind off of things, and he'd started early with whiskey and moved on to shots after catching a glimpse of dark hair and blue eyes across the bar. It wasn't that he was in denial about Cas. Along with Sam, he was the first thought Dean had every morning, especially after he'd had one of those dreams. But whatever it was they'd had, it felt...incomplete. It was an open wound that went straight down into Dean's insides, and he couldn't think about the angel without thinking about everything that they hadn't said or done, everything that they might have said and done, if only they'd had more time. It was unfinished fucking business, Dean told himself, and if Cas hadn't been such a goddamn fuck up, angel and human, he'd know that he should be haunting Dean right now. Throwing shot glasses at his head to get himself noticed, so they could have one more minute, one more argument, maybe, for once, actually get to say goodbye.

But Cas was never any good at people skills, Dean thought. How was the awkward little angel supposed to know the etiquette for tying up loose ends, for coming back and making yourself heard when you die without saying...

Eventually, when Dean started growling at the unfortunate stranger, whose eyes were only blue-ish, really, but close enough, about “where his feathery ass had been,” the bartender had called Garth to come collect him.

Most of the local bartenders had become familiar with the handsome drunk's roommate and understood him to be something like an oddly cheerful younger brother. Myka had had to call him before, watched him sit with Dean and listen to him rage or lift him bodily from the floor (she wasn’t sure how that was possible; Garth must have steel in those weedy limbs) to drag him home. She admired his endless patience, but when he came in that night, she suspected it might be the last straw.

“Howdy, Myka! How's business?” Garth looked particularly sharp in a freshly ironed black shirt and jeans, and he was accompanied by a gorgeous, dark-skinned friend in a very flattering red dress. Myka realized that he must be on a date and felt bad for calling, but it wasn't like Garth had said no.

“Better when Dean's here, as usual. He's in the bathroom. In fact, it might be about time to go peel him off the floor.”

“On my way. Myka, may I present Ande? Ande, this is Myka.” He gave Myka a significant look. “Ande never laughs at me for ordering wine spritzers. I'll just be a minute, sweetie pie.” Ah, not a first date, then, Myka thought, especially considering the way Garth's fingers lingered in Ande's as he turned away and headed for the bathroom.

“Isn't he wonderful?” Ande sat at the bar and reached over to snag an olive to munch on. Myka put a glass of them on the bar and grinned.

“He's definitely...something special. How long have you two been...” Myka's eyebrows very clearly demonstrated her meaning, and Ande laughed.

“A few weeks, but I confess, I am smitten. I have to pinch myself sometimes. You know, when I got my hair cut, he didn't even blink? He just said I looked amazing, and he loved that it made me smile more.” Ande's hair was very short, in an edgy style Myka loved and had never had the guts to try herself. She was starting to like Ande immensely.

“How did you two meet?”

“Through work.”

“Ooh, office romance?” Myka glanced around, but it was a slow night, and seeing no one who needed her attention, she put her elbows on the bar and leaned in conspiratorially.

“You could say that, although I hated him at first. He made my job very difficult, but we talked it out and came to an understanding. Then we _came to an understanding_ , if you know what I— Oh, isn't he handsome?” Ande exclaimed, distracted by Garth coming back from the bathroom with Dean's arm draped heavily over his shoulders. “Or at least, I think he will be when he's sober.”

“Honey, you have no idea.” Myka laughed, thinking fondly of the first night she had met Dean, which he barely remembered but she recalled vividly and in detail. He'd come up with a rule since then about sleeping with his bartenders, but she didn't mind. He had been a great one-night-stand, and now he was a regular who was, she hoped, becoming a friend, which was fine by her. “He can make your knees weak just by looking at you.” Ande looked ready to beg for more details but could also see that Dean wasn't helping much with the whole standing thing, and Garth was barely able to manage him.

“Care to give me a hand, cutie?” Garth smiled fondly at Ande as they balanced the half-conscious man between them, but Myka could tell that he was not as happy as he looked. Whether because of the interrupted date or because of his worry about Dean, she wasn't sure, but there was a tiredness in his eyes, and she made a mental note to cut Dean off sooner from then on.

“You guys get home safe, okay?”

“Thanks, Mykes. You have a terrific evening.”

“Great meeting you, Myka! I'll come back some time and you can finish enlightening me about...that thing we were talking about.” Ande's not-at-all-subtle wink sent Myka into a fit of laughter, and she decided that she definitely liked Ande.

When Dean woke up the next morning, he did not like Ande. Not even a little bit. Because Ande was fucking singing at ten in the fucking morning when all sensible people were sleeping, goddammit. It was only the smell of coffee and something else, slightly sweet and buttery, that pulled his miserable body from the couch and got him as far as the kitchen table before he had to put his head down for a rest.

“Dude, whoever the fuck you are,” he mumbled, “please stop shouting I am begging you.” A pair of boxers appeared in his peripheral vision, and Ande laughed and set a steaming mug in front of him.

“I heard you might be a bit grumpy. That's why I made offerings. Waffles are done, and there'll be eggs and sausage in five minutes. And my name is Ande, by the way.”

“Mkay.” Dean took a tentative sip at the coffee, which was bitter and way too hot and completely perfect. He managed to open his eyes enough to see that there were indeed waffles on a platter just in front of him, and also that Ande was wearing _his_ AC/DC t-shirt along with the boxers, which upon closer inspection appeared to have Hello Kitty on them. _Where do you even get those?_ he managed to wonder before the semi-functional part of his brain was taken over by the daunting task of acquiring and consuming waffles with as few sudden movements as possible.

“You were a real mess last night, Dean Winchester. Hard to believe you're the hunter I've heard so many thrilling stories about.” Ande was busy with a frying pan, but Dean could practically hear the smirk.

“Yeah, well, I survived, didn't I? 's what I do best.” It took a moment, and another mouthful of scalding coffee, for Dean to realize what Ande had said. “Wait a minute, what do you mean 'hunter'? What d'you know about it? And just, who are you? Garth's boyfriend? Is that sonofabitch telling hunting stories to get _dates_?”

Ande turned around and pushed a pile of fried protein on top of his waffles, which was in fact right where he wanted it, but his fuzzy fight-or-flight brain refused to let him be distracted.

“Come on, spill. How do you know about me? About us?” Ande sighed and sat down beside him.

“Yes, Garth has told me stories about you. And yes, we're dating. But I don't really do 'boy' or 'girl,' okay?” Ande spoke quickly and looked him straight in the eye, gauging his reaction. “Neither really suits me. And I knew about hunters before Garth, and I've never really been a fan, but he's special. And he tells me you are, too, which is why I made the breakfast you're not eating.”

Dean thought about that for a minute, frowned a bit over what Garth had meant by calling him “special,” and took the measure of the steel in Ande’s eyes. This was a person who knew about hunters, had probably put up with a lot of shit, and still wore Hello Kitty boxers and sang in the mornings. Definitely Garth’s type. Dean made a decision and returned his attention to the plate in front of him.

“So,” he said, digging into the eggs, “not a guy, not a girl. Okay. I guess you don't use 'he' or 'she'?”

“No, I prefer 'they' and 'them'. And Garth just calls me his sweetheart.” Ande watched Dean's ambitious assault on breakfast cautiously. Dean got the impression that this conversation usually didn't go well for him. Them, he mentally corrected himself.

“Yeah, he's a little old-fashioned that way. Do we have any bacon?”

“You're lucky you got sausage, and even that was looking questionable when I pulled it out of the freezer. Don't you two ever grocery shop?” Ande sounded exasperated, but as they got up to make up a plate for Garth, Dean thought he detected a smile. He decided Ande was okay, despite the singing, but made a mental note to find out how they knew about hunters. And also how his t-shirt had ended up in Garth's possession.


	6. Aalborg, Denmark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iaolus tracks Castiel.

Iaolus had spent time in nearly every war zone, official and unofficial, ancient and modern. It was a position he was suited to, whether by design or long experience he couldn't be sure, but the work satisfied him in a hard-to-define way. It wasn't that he particularly liked war, although he was an expert in it. It wasn't the kind of touchy-feely stuff humans associated with angels like him, a softly glowing face bringing comfort to dying soldiers.

No, what satisfied him was sitting next to a soldier as their vehicle bumped over rocky terrain, looking at a picture of the new daughter the soldier wouldn't live to see. Sharing a cigarette with someone who intended to quit but couldn't resist, the only sign of strain under pressure. Holding a bloody bandage over someone's wound, watching the reaper wait nearby. He wasn't an angel of mercy, he was an angel of necessity: making promises, hearing confessions, commiserating and buying a drink or sitting in silence with the kind of patience that tells a person, _I get it. Me, too_. Doing the work of preparing people for a death they knew was coming but not as surely or as precisely as he did. Satisfying like the important jobs that are just parts of other jobs, like splitting up your shared belongings before you move out or gassing up the car before you drive away. Things that have to get done.

He had known Castiel by reputation, had seen how he and Lailah fought almost like one angel with two faces and two swords, but he'd never gotten close. It was only with the expulsion from Heaven that Iaolus had found himself among the upper ranks, although Lailah had always liked him. He wasn't sure he enjoyed being so close to command after so much time on the ground. There was a certain distance and coldness to the ones who gave the orders that bothered him, although he understood its necessity, understood why angels like Lailah and Castiel held themselves above angels like him. Or had done. Now everything was in pieces, command included, and he wondered how much trouble they were going to get themselves into trusting angels like Ananais, whose moral absolutes and inexperience of war made her, in his opinion, as dangerous as Castiel.

And Castiel was very, very dangerous. He was hard to track, for one, and Iaolus had been forced to follow a trail of destruction rather than the renegade himself. Bodies turning up burned up from the inside, bodies of people who had gone missing days or weeks before.

Iaolus tried to find a pattern in the killings, one that might help him predict Castiel's movements, but there didn't seem to be one. There were certainly killings of opportunity, the remains found a few towns away from each other, which lead Iaolus to believe that some angels were giving up their local brothers and sisters in the mistaken hope that Castiel might let them live. But otherwise there was no consistency, either of rank or familiarity, no common thread that Iaolus could tug at to see where it was leading. And it frustrated him. As much time as he had spent waiting with his soldiers, this was different. This was sitting in command, watching battle after battle happen out of reach, over before they began. These angels died alone, and it broke his heart.

He sat in a dingy bar in Aalborg, drinking cheap whiskey and unconsciously nodding along to the gloomy rock someone had programmed on the jukebox. Two angels had died here the day before, leaving him at least twenty-four hours behind Castiel but with no leads to take him forward, so he was doing what came naturally to him. In the dark, he listened to the war stories of a pair of vets sitting down the bar, eventually buying a round and joining them, asking about their abrasive COs, minor delinquencies, the usual things. Soldiers were essentially the same everywhere, he had found, and there was a comfort in the sameness and the dependability of their kind. But Iaolus's mind was elsewhere.

They were going to need another plan, something more direct, if they meant to actually stop Castiel, if that was what Lailah meant to do. Iaolus did not doubt her dedication to the garrison, but he also understood how much she cared about Castiel and how desperately she would cling to the notion that he could be fixed, like a defective weapon that just needed repairs to fire correctly. She would be focusing on ways to contain Castiel, not ways to destroy him.

Iaolus had always been inclined toward obedience only when someone had earned his respect. Lailah had more than earned it over the years, and he had always appreciated the sureness and comfort that the orders she handed down were right, but respect could be lost. The knowledge that that might happen, that he might have to forge another path if Lailah lost her nerve, make him anxious.

He found himself wishing Ephraim was there. They had worked in separate but related fields, and although Ephraim often had trouble understanding his fondness for humanity, they had become very close over the centuries. Of course, Ephraim was dead, killed by Castiel even before the events in Lebanon. Iaolus did not know the details, and he knew that Ephraim could be stubborn and fractious, but there was a bitterness in his heart for the loss all the same. He wondered if he would ever be able to ask Castiel about his friend's last moments, whether Castiel would give him the chance to say anything if they came face to face.

Thinking about Ephraim made the whiskey even more unpalatable, and his companions were reminiscing about their first loves, and it was suddenly too much for Iaolus. He tossed back the rest of his drink, nodded to the soldiers, and headed out, the whining guitar of Evergrey's “Recreation Day” spilling over his shoulder into the night. It had been an unusually cold Spring here, and now it was raining or snowing, or maybe both. Frigid water spilled over the gutters and down Iaolus's neck. He frowned, jerking up his hood instinctively. A drab wetness soaked through everything; even the bright colors of the lighted bar signs turned greyish as they melted into the slushy puddles underfoot.

He used to tell Ephraim about Earth, Ephraim half-listening, indulgent, while he groomed Iaolus's wings. It had come to feel like part of his work, retelling the stories of the dead, giving them one more life, one more person to think of them.

“Why do they fight?” Ephraim used to ask him. “What is the point? Why fill their tiny lives with violence and suffering?”

“Because their lives are small,” Iaolus would tell him. “Because they are desperate, and they want so many things they'll never achieve. They live more intensely than we do, they fill every minute.”

“It sounds exhausting. I don't know how you can stand it, giving yourself to them, filling your life with their mortality.”

“It's my job,” Iaolus would say, but it was more than that, and they both knew it. It was the one thing that they never saw eye-to-eye on: Iaolus with his affection for humanity, Ephraim with his disdain. But somehow it was never important enough to really come between them, and the time they passed together was a great comfort to Iaolus. He spent so much time wrapped in others' lives, but his time with Ephraim was _his_.

As the rain fell around him, Iaolus felt, momentarily, very human, and very cold. He wondered whether it was a side effect of Heaven being closed, whether they would all gradually fade into an artificial humanity, grow old, grow fragile, die in forty or fifty years when they could have lived forever. Maybe they could even learn to be happy that way. Humans were, for all their problems, very good at making the most of very little time. The angels could learn a lot from them.

If Castiel didn't kill them all first.


	7. Second Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn more about Ande (but not everything), Garth chooses sexytimes over waffles, and Dean makes a friend. Maybe. She doesn't seem to like him all that much.

Garth was just waking up when Ande came in with breakfast. His pajamas were all bunched and tangled around him as he stretched in bed, his t-shirt riding up in the sexiest, most adorable way possible, but Ande hardly noticed as they sat beside him, handing him the plate and resting their head on his shoulder.

“It didn't go bad, did it, baby? Do I need to go give him a piece of my mind, or did you do that already?”

“No, it was...okay. Weirdly okay. But you know we're going to have to tell him the whole truth about me eventually. And how's he going to take that? What's it going to do to you two when he finds out you kept my secret from him?” Ande looked up at their person, their one person in all the world who knew everything and somehow made it all seem okay, trying to somehow absorb his calmness by proximity. Garth set his plate on the nightstand and burrowed down in the blankets beside them until they were both sharing one pillow, curving toward each other like parentheses.

“Listen up," he said, stroking the side of their face gently, "I'm not going to say you have nothing to worry about, because I know you have good reasons. But I have faith in Dean, and I think he might surprise you.” He reached out and pulled Ande close with one arm, sliding his hand comfortingly along their spine. Ande sighed and leaned in, resting their forehead against Garth's and closing their eyes as he spoke. “However it goes down, I'm on your side, one hundred percent. If you need me to pin him down and talk sense into him, I swear by your adorable nose that I will figure out a way to do that.”

Garth kissed the tip of Ande's adorable nose, which always made them smile, even when they didn't particularly feel like it, then pulled back slightly to look them in the eyes. “Okay?” Ande felt a surge of affection for this man, with his goofy smile and nerves of steel. They reached up to caress his stubble, taking a deep breath.

“Okay,” Ande whispered. It was more trust than certainty, but that was part of Garth's magic. If you trusted him, his certainty could be enough for both of you. Ande pulled him in for a deep kiss, and breakfast was forgotten as they finally went to work on those inconvenient, tangled pajamas. His shirt came off first, barely missing the waffles as it got tossed past the nightstand and onto the floor, then his sweatpants (stolen from Ande, they were pretty sure). They left his heart-patterned briefs on for the moment, because goddamn was he hotter in those than he had any right to be, and got down to the very important business of kissing every bit of skin they had just exposed, slowly and deliberately. Finally, when Ande got down to his calves, Garth decided they were entirely too far away for his liking, and he sat up reached out toward them.

“Baby,” he cajoled, a little breathlessly, “I'm going to need you to get back up here and let me kiss the everloving daylights out of you.”

“Oh, are you?” Ande teased, but they climbed back up toward Garth, letting their bodies touch here and there, briefly but deliberately, and they were both grinning when their lips finally came back together. After one deep kiss, though, Garth got a bit of wanderlust in him, and Ande gasped and giggled as he started kissing and tickling his way down their neck. His hands made their way over Ande's hips and down their legs before sliding back up their thighs and under the edge of their boxers, patiently exploring. They both enjoyed taking it slow, with long strokes, light touches, and unbearably chaste kisses. It was a kind of slowness that built up like a fire inside, until their muscles ached from it.

Gently but insistently, Ande took Garth by the arms and pushed him onto his back, reaching over their heads to place his hands on the bars of the bedframe. He looked so good like this—completely at ease and happy but also wanting, his neck arched and his breath quick, his eyes full of tenderness and mischief.

“Oh, I  _like_ this game. I've got fuzzy handcuffs somewhere...” he trailed off, glancing around for them behind his waffles, but Ande shook their head and put a firm hand on his chest.

“No handcuffs. You're going to have to control yourself,” they murmured, straddling him and leaning in close to whisper in his ear. “Don't let go.” Garth looked deep into their eyes and bucked his hips up with a little growl, half lustful and half teasing.

“Never, sweetheart.”

***

It was a slightly louder and much less controlled growl that got Dean's attention and sent him and his hangover fleeing from the boat. He was depressed and self-loathing, no doubt, but not even Dean Winchester hated himself enough to sit around listening to Garth's sexy animal noises. So he pulled on his jacket and headed out. It was too warm for the jacket, really, but Dean was still a little gun shy after the unmitigated awfulness of the Chicago winter, and he didn't trust the sunshine yet.

As he stepped off of  _Fizzles' Folly_ , intent on finding a dark, quiet place to spend the afternoon, he was confronted by a nondescript teenager, sullen-looking, like most teenagers, with zebra-striped black and blonde hair, who appeared to be inspecting the boat.

“Uh, hey kid. Can I help you with something?” The kid just looked at him, though, in a way that Dean found very unsettling. There was something about that face that made it hard to describe, the features hard to pin down exactly. “Dude, quit staring. You're creeping me out.”

“I'm a girl.” Her voice was quiet, but she looked him in the eyes when she spoke.

“Okay...”

“Not a dude.”

“Okay, I got it. Are you looking for somebody?” Dean glanced up and down the dock, hoping this girl had just wandered away from her parents and could be quickly returned to them, because it might be approaching afternoon, but it was still far to early in the morning for this.

“Ande.”

“Well, uh, Ande's here but... Kinda busy at the moment. Maybe come back later, yeah?” He reached out to ruffle the girl's hair in passing, but she ducked under his hand with a glare.

“They're having sex, aren't they?”

“Kid, that is a question you do not want the answer to, believe me.” Dean started to walk away, but something about the whole thing bothered him, and he didn't want to leave the kid just hanging out on the dock.

“You hungry?” The girl nodded hesitantly. “Alright, come on. I could use another cup of coffee or three.” He started to walk away, then stopped when he realized she wasn't moving. “I don't bite,” he said over his shoulder. She didn't look convinced. “Do you really want to hang around and maybe overhear something you really don't want to?” Finally, she side-eyed the boat and cautiously walked after him. “That's more like it. So, you got a name?”

“Beth.”

“Hi, Beth. I'm Dean.” He gave her his most winning smile, but she just looked straight ahead. “Okay, not the chatty type. Fine by me.”

It was much the same as they sat together at a nearby diner, Beth eating oatmeal ( _what kind of kid actually likes oatmeal_ , he wondered) and Dean having more coffee than he probably should and some advil he had charmed away from their waitress. He quickly gave up trying to ask questions about her, how she knew Ande, what was up with the zebra hair. He could tell she was reserving judgment on him, and it made him uncomfortable. People usually knew pretty quickly how they felt about Dean Winchester, and they usually made their conclusions known in no uncertain terms. And he didn't like that he still couldn't get a fix on what she looked like. It wasn't that anything was wrong with her appearance, just that every time he looked away from her, he seemed to forget her face. Probably the hangover, he thought. But it still made him edgy.

As the silence dragged on, Dean found himself thinking about Ande. It wasn't that he disliked them, far from it. But if Garth was seeing someone who slept over, and used his kitchen, and felt comfortable making breakfast for his hungover houseguest, that was...kind of serious. The kind of serious that leads to talks about “needing space” and oh, look, Dean, here are the apartment listings. Would you like to take a look?

Garth would never kick him out, Dean knew. But he couldn't go on sleeping on the couch forever, and if Ande made his friend happy (and based on what he couldn't forget overhearing this morning, they really did), maybe it was time to make a graceful exit. Maybe it was past time, even. He'd never stuck around very long anywhere, and if he could find himself a good old car, maybe he'd enjoy being on the road again and out of everyone's hair. And if his heart beat a little too fast at the thought and his chest got a little tight, it was probably just too much coffee. Definitely not anxiety. Absolutely not.

When Beth had finished her oatmeal, she pushed the bowl away and folded her arms, giving Dean a look that reminded him way too much of Meg. He felt himself lean away from her a little bit, mentally kicking himself for being such a wuss.

"So, are you a hunter, too?"

"Wha--why does everybody know about that all of a sudden? Have you been reading those damn books?"

"What books?"

"...Nevermind. No books. There are no books. Yeah, I'm a hunter. Or, I was a hunter."

"But you're not now?"

Dean sighed. This conversation was getting more existential than he was feeling equipped to handle.

"I don't know, kid." He shook his head. "I guess I'm not really anything."

She seemed satisfied with that, although Dean was pretty sure he wasn't.

"Any more questions?" He leaned forward on the table. surprised to find himself almost enjoying the interrogation. The kid was weird, no doubt, but kind of fearless, too. She thought about it for a minute, looking him up and down.

"What's with the necklace?"

"It's sort of a good luck charm."

"Does it work?" Dean hesitated, looking out the window and resisting a sudden wave of memories. Hell no, he was not thinking about any of that shit right now.

"No," he finally answered, draining the last of his coffee and miming to the waitress to bring the check. "It really doesn't."

 


	8. Krzywy Las

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel runs into an old... friend? Associate? Let's go with acquaintance.

Sarah was causing Castiel some difficulties. She was young and inexperienced, and she should have been easy to kill, but he had never seen anyone fight so tenaciously for her own life. She fought in the same way that Dean ( _Dean, who stood watching him with a phantom hand stretched out toward his shoulder, telling him never to change_ ) fought for Sam. _Had_ fought for Sam, until the end. Sarah's desperation made her unpredictable and bold. When he first confronted her in the Crooked Forest in Poland, she stood in the crook of one of the trees, leaning casually against the trunk almost as if she was expecting him. The woods around them were eerily silent but for a slight breeze, all its residents having fled when they sensed the danger of being near either angel, and the evening light fell at a strange angle, making it hard to tell the trees from their shadows.

“Oh, so you're Dean Winchester's angel.” Sarah cocked her head. “Pretty enough, I suppose. If you go for that sort of thing. Of course, from what I hear, Dean didn't, did he?” Seeing how her words made him hesitate, she laughed and hopped down from her perch. “Well, you came to kill me. What are you waiting for?”

But she wouldn't stay still long enough to be killed. She dodged and laughed and taunted Castiel, winding in and out among the bent trees, back and forth between the grove and the undergrowth at its edges.

“What are you fighting for, Castiel? Your boyfriend is dead, and he wouldn't thank you for it, anyway. After all, I'm not the one who killed him. The rumors say that Gadreel had a hand in it, but even if they're true it was just self-preservation. So whose fault was it, really, that poor Dean ended up in the line of fire? Whose fault was it that the monster got out of its cage?” Sarah dove under his arm, surprising him with a blow to the side on her way by. He brought his sword down a moment too late, catching her ankle but doing little damage.

“Hold still and this will be over quickly.” Castiel turned to grab at her, but she had vanished into the undergrowth. He tried to locate her, but she kept moving, making it hard to pinpoint where, exactly, her voice was coming from.

“Too late for a _quick_ death, I'm afraid. I wonder why, though?”

“What are you talking about?” He turned rapidly, hoping to catch a glimpse, but the wind rustled the leaves and made him see her everywhere. Dean was still there, too, waiting in his peripheral vision, looking at him like... Castiel closed his eyes to try to focus on the sounds around him, to distinguish Sarah's movements from the swaying branches. Shadows flickered over his eyelids like moths.

“I was at Lebanon; I saw everything. You don't have to touch me to kill me, Castiel. So what's holding you back?” She appeared suddenly behind him, blade just under his shoulders. “It's him, isn't it? You know your loverboy wouldn't approve. You know he'd try to talk you out of--ah!”

But it wasn't Castiel who had silenced her. He turned quickly, ready to face a new attacker, and was surprised to see Crowley standing in front of him, grimacing at the bloody angel blade in his hand.

“Hello, Cas. Long time, no see.” He noticed Castiel eyeing the blade. “Doesn't suit me, does it? Heavenly weapon like this. I must admit, though, I do rather enjoy poking things with it.” The demon grinned lasciviously at Castiel, who squinted back at him, keeping his own sword at the ready.

“Crowley. I thought you were dead.”

“Oh, Cas, I'm hurt. You think a collapsing building and an army of disgruntled angels can kill me? It's like you don't know me at all. And after all I've done for you.”

“The spell you gave us failed. Sam and Dean are dead, and Gadreel has escaped. Tell me, what exactly have you done for me that I shouldn't kill you for?” Castiel paced slowly around Crowley, trying to give himself a tactical advantage by forcing Crowley to move in response, but the demon stayed put.

“Oh, I don't know, maybe pulling you out of that wreckage for a start? Or are you not grateful for that? Is that what this kamikaze mission is all about?” Crowley sneered. “ _Penance and suicide_? You should know better than most, Cas. There's no one left upstairs to count our sins.”

“Why would you have done such a thing? You were free and clear; you could have easily left me.” Castiel had stopped pacing and was watching Crowley closely. The demon turned slightly to look at him, as if trying to figure it out himself.

“I was locked up in the Winchesters' basement for months with a dose of Moose's lily-white blood in me,” Crowley shuddered. “Something must have rubbed off, and _not_ in a fun way. Thankfully, I seem to have gotten it out of my system.” Castiel glanced at Sarah's body, which still lay on the ground at Crowley's feet.

“Oh, that! Yes, well, I find that the best way to get a favor out of you noble, heroic types is to do you a favor first. Your moral uprightness gets a bit... _bendy_ when you owe someone something. Besides,” he added, “I think you'll like this job.” Crowley was wearing his crossroads face, now, and Castiel lowered his sword. If the demon was here to deal, that meant he needed Castiel, and he was not likely to try anything with his own stolen blade.

“I am not a hero. And I no longer make deals with demons.”

“Oh, but this is right up your alley, Cas. There are some angels making trouble for my boys in DC, hunting them down, picking them off one at a time like bloody ducks, and they are wearing on my last nerve.” Crowley spoke slowly and purposefully, and Castiel could see the rage that burned just behind his eyes, the emotion that fueled all of his calculations and made him a very, very dangerous enemy. Castiel understood the usefulness and the sharp pleasures of anger and revenge, and he knew that Crowley was right. He would like this job, maybe more than he was willing to admit. And Crowley knew it.

“You'll find them parked in Arlington,” he said smugly. “Do _try_ not to dawdle, that ginger bitch is breathing down my neck and I would very much like to stop hemorrhaging leverage while I'm trying to run a campaign.” He lowered his eyes to Castiel's wrist and clicked his tongue with concern.

“Speaking of hemorrhaging, your meatsuit seems to be wearing a bit thin, Cas. You should really consider getting that looked at.” Castiel followed his eyes and discovered a strand of grace glowing blue just under the skin of his wrist. It waved gently, as if blown by the same breeze that moved through the woods, before slowly receding back into his vessel as the adrenaline from the fight ebbed away. Castiel made an effort to appear unconcerned.

“I am an angel, Crowley. I know how to maintain my vessel.”

But when he looked up, Crowley was gone, and Dean stood in his place, looking so painfully young that Castiel felt a pang in his chest. This was the Dean he had first met in the barn all those years ago.

“Some angel you are,” the vision admonished. “You burned out that poor woman's eyes.”


End file.
